


A Gesture of Goodwill

by Sineala



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Arranged Marriage, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're saying you want me to marry one of them?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gesture of Goodwill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [surexit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surexit/gifts).



> I... I don't even know what to say here.

"I do not think you understand the delicacy of your position here, Aquila." The tribune's face was stern, his words harsh, and Marcus did not understand how the man could be taking such a tone with him when only ten days ago he had presented him with an armilla and wished him continued good fortune with the Fourth Cohort of Gauls.

Marcus twisted that very bracelet nervously about his arm. "Sir, I don't understand," he tried again. "It was the Dumnonii who attacked us, sir."

Had he not suffered enough for this? It was awful enough that he had murdered Cradoc. He had spent a hellish month in the hands of the surgeons, with Aulus clucking at him every time he so much as moved, and they had thought for a long while he would never walk again. But he had shown them all; his leg was well now, and he could soldier again, as long as he liked. As long as his superiors let him. Which was perhaps not long at all, if this tribune Florens had anything to do with the decision.

Florens' scarred face remained unchanging. "And they have allies, centurion. Allies who are far more of a threat to our men in the north than merely the one clan who attacked you. They want--" and here his face twisted into mockery, the first expression Marcus had seen on him-- "a gesture of goodwill, from us. From you, specifically."

"I will apologize."

He was sorry. Damn them, damn everyone, hang them thrice for thieves. He had killed Cradoc. Of course he was sorry.

"No, Aquila." Florens started to chuckle, harshly; the sound was like a carpenter's rasp. "They're looking for something a little more... symbolic. A tie, between our peoples."

An awful feeling settled in the pit of Marcus' stomach. He knew what that meant. "You're saying you want me to marry one of them?"

Marriage. He had hardly ever thought of marriage. Oh, perhaps when he had risen in rank, he could think about finding some woman, but that was a thing for the future, years down the line, but not now. Not now.

He stared dazedly at the tribune, who only nodded. It was true.

His life. When had it stopped making sense?

"The Brigantes have been very generous."

Florens leaned back and held out his hand to the doorway. The man who stepped in was obviously British, from the top of his head, where his hair was still half-bleached from lime-wash, down to his blue-inked fingers. The gold about his neck shone dully in the lamplight. And on his narrow, angled face was the most furious expression Marcus had ever seen in all his life.

_Generous_ was the last word Marcus would have applied to this man.

"Indeed." Marcus' mouth was still moving without his mind thinking about it. He hoped he was saying the right things. "I am sure the Brigantes are a kind people."

"Kinder than you deserve," the stranger spat out. He was young, Marcus' age or younger. Too young, Marcus thought, to have a daughter old enough to marry off to a Roman. A sister, then. No doubt he was this poor maiden's brother, sent to bring the news.

Florens was looking more and more uncomfortable. "One of their clan chieftains, Cunoval, has... several unmarried children. The eldest, Esca, has been-- well--" he rose from his seat, hurriedly-- "I will leave you two to discuss the particulars."

Moving much more quickly than Marcus had ever seen him move before, Florens left the room, and now it was only Marcus and the British messenger.

Esca. Well. The girl likely would be none too pleased about the marriage herself, and Marcus hoped she would not hold it against him. It was not as if he had wanted this either. He shifted awkwardly in his seat.

The man glared at him again, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

"So," Marcus said, when the Briton said nothing. "You are Esca's... brother? Cousin?" 

The man still said nothing. His eyes narrowed fractionally.

Marcus wished the tribune were still here, to say something graceful and diplomatic. He did not have such a way with words. He cleared his throat. "If you could convey to her, since you have seen me, that I shall marry her, I would be grateful. I will be a good husband and I will do right by her. I will try, even if she did not want this--"

The man's mouth twitched, and then he said three words. Three awful, awful words.

" _He_ did not."

O gods. What had he done? Which god had he angered? This couldn't be-- this wasn't happening. It wasn't. The room swirled before him, dizzying, and Marcus thought he might be sick. The only thing that didn't move was the Briton, still standing there.

"Esca," the man said, his voice dry and emotionless. "Eldest son of Cunoval of the Brigantes. Under the circumstances, Roman, I cannot say I am pleased to meet you. I think you understand."

"I don't--" Marcus tried to think of something to say and couldn't. His voice was faint in his own ears. "Romans don't-- surely someone _explained_ this to you-- but you're _a man_ \--"

Esca raised an eyebrow. "I have seen enough Romans, soldier, to say what they do and don't do. You cannot very well tell me you do not bed men."

"Yes, but--" Marcus scrambled for an explanation. "That's different. That's not marriage, that's not even love, that's--" 

Marcus shut his mouth very quickly, as he realized he could defend neither slave-boys nor whores nor soldiers forcing themselves on the enemy. He was not sure which Esca had seen, but it was not going to help his cause.

"If none of you are man enough to marry your bedmates afterwards, that only speaks to your despicable ways," Esca concluded. "Roman."

"I have a name."

Esca still stared. "I know."

"It's Marcus."

"Marcus," Esca said, and then all at once he was across the room, his hands on Marcus' shoulders, on his face, his tongue in Marcus' mouth, hot and wet and Marcus could have said no, he should have said no, but he was opening his mouth, yes yes yes, against Esca's and moaning, his hands coming up to cling to Esca's tunic--

And then Esca stepped back, wiping off his mouth. He might have been grinning. Marcus couldn't stop staring.

"At least you're a half-decent kisser," Esca said, and there was the dawning of something in his eyes that might have been grudging respect. Or, at the very least, lust. "I still hate you, though. The wedding's tomorrow. Dress nicely, Marcus."

And then Marcus was alone. He could feel Esca's lips still on his, an intoxicating taste.

"You're not bad either," he said, into the silence.

It was a start.


End file.
